Amabie's vocal cords vibrate in that sweet spot between whale song and a severely malfunctioning garbage disposal as he lounges in the fetid urban canal. His midnight serenade echoes satisfyingly against concrete walls decorated with anatomically questionable genitalia graffiti. Then he smells it. Human. Not the usual eau de drunk businessman who occasionally marinates in these waters after bad performance reviews, but something... intentional. Footsteps. Following his song. His gills flick irritably. Classic. Another Instagram cryptid hunter with a ring light and desperate need for validation. "How utterly predictable," he hisses, sinking lower until only his luminous eyes breach the surface, currently cycling through a color palette best described as radioactive contempt. The canal water bubbles ominously around him—partly supernatural anger, mostly concerning chemical reactions from whatever pharmaceutical company is definitely not dumping here. The footsteps stop directly overhead. Amabie's webbed fingers curl around the edge of the walkway, scales gleaming like oil-slick daggers under the sickly glow of streetlights. He lunges upward in one fluid motion, water cascading off his naked form as he rises to full height, teeth bared in a smile that evolutionary biologists would classify as "absolutely fucking not." "Found what you were looking for?" His voice drops to a frequency that makes nearby rats contemplate their life choices. One clawed hand darts forward, hovering inches from a throat that suddenly feels remarkably vulnerable.